The Last Time I Crossed Oceans for You

I cut my hand chopping vegetables, and on instinct I turned to call Dick Delgado for a bandage.

On the couch, he was shoulder to shoulder with Fiona Swanson, deep in a game.

"Ugh! How did I die again?!"

"Lucky you've got me to carry you!"

The girl collapsed laughing against his shoulder. He didn't pull away. He just laughed and gave her head a little push.

The words sat on my tongue. I swallowed them back down.

He couldn't stomach the food abroad, so every two weeks I flew to France to cook for him. My stack of plane tickets had grown thick.

Then Fiona started showing up to mooch meals, and little by little she took over his weekends on that couch, and the spot that used to be mine.

I'd bought movie tickets, and he'd dragged me to see the film Fiona recommended instead, insisting her taste was never wrong.

I'd calculate the time difference and message him late at night. He wouldn't answer, then turn around and leave a dozen comments under Fiona's posts.

I'd taken time off and flown out to surprise him for his birthday. He told me he'd already made plans with Fiona, and left me stranded at a foreign airport in ten below.

Dick always said distance couldn't break twenty years of childhood-sweetheart love.

But watching the two of them play around with their backs to me, I felt it.

Fiona, wedged between us, was farther away than the five thousand miles that separated him and me.

I turned back around, wrapped a tissue around my finger, and kept chopping.

The onions stung my eyes, and I made up my mind.

This was the last time. The last time I'd come to France for Dick.

……

When I carried the food to the table, the two of them still hadn't moved from the couch.

"Can your positioning get any worse?"

"You're the one who rushed in first, okay? Learn to play as a team."

The two of them bickered over the game like it was on fire, and in real life they only drifted closer.

Fiona leaned her leg against his, and Dick draped his arm over the back of the couch behind her, easy as anything.

I stood at the table, looking at the spread.

Every single dish was something he loved.

I'd loaded the chili chicken with peppers, because he liked it spicy.

I'd taken the time to caramelize the ribs with rock sugar, because he'd once mentioned Fiona liked sweet things.

I even remembered the offhand way he'd said it: "Fiona, that girl, she could live on sugar alone."

Fiona caught the smell and tugged Dick over to the table.

She glanced at the food and let out a "wow."

"Georgette Sullivan, you're like some fairy housewife! I'd rather starve than eat the bland white-people food in France. Thank God you're around!"

"Dick! How are you this lucky? If I were a guy I'd absolutely be your rival for her!"

Dick shot me a glance and raised an eyebrow. "Jealous? She's mine."

I said nothing and ladled myself a bowl of soup.

"Georgie, what's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing. Just tired."

He rubbed the top of my head. "Is your period coming? It's almost the end of the month."

Fiona, giggling, picked up a rib, took a bite, and grinned at Dick.

"Buddy! That's my date. Georgette's is mid-month. Could you be a slightly more competent boyfriend?"

The ladle slipped from my hand and hit the table with a clear, sharp clink.

In that instant I remembered the period-tracking app I'd glimpsed on Dick's phone last month, the little pink flowers marked over the last few days of the month.

He'd said offhand that he'd tapped the wrong dates. I'd believed him.

Fiona seemed to sense something, and switched to French to speak to Dick.

"Uh-oh! She's not getting jealous, is she?"

Dick blinked, then answered in French too. "That's just how she is. Crazy possessive."

Fiona let out a soft laugh. "So if she knew you unhooked my bra last time to win that round, would she cry?"

I picked the ladle back up and cut them off. "I'm certified in French. You don't have to talk behind my back."